Beryl saw him take down a worn volume and lay it on the table. He seemed like a man walking in his sleep. Mechanically he took up a miniature sword from a pin tray and held it for a moment in his hand.
"Try the luck!" scoffed Steppe. "Shall I go to the play, shan't I go to the play—dear Lord!"
For the space of a second their eyes met and Beryl, watching, saw the big man start. Then the sword was thrust between the pages and the book opened.
Ronnie looked gloomily at the close-set type—frowned. Then he read slowly, sonorously:
"I will take away from thee the desire of thine eyes with a stroke; yet neither shall thou mourn nor weep; neither shall thy tears fall down."
The clock on the mantelpiece struck nine.
A silence, painful and intense, so profound that Beryl's quick breathings were audible.
"I will take away the desires of thine eyes with a stroke—"
"Don't read it again!" cried Steppe harshly. "I'm going—listening to this fool—come on, Beryl."
Turning at the door she saw him still standing at the table. His face was in shadow, his hands white and shapely, outspread upon the leather-covered top; the open book between them.